One minute for Brennan and Booth
by threesquares
Summary: What a difference 60 seconds more or 60 seconds less could have made for our favorite couple. A series of one-shots in which I indulge our desire to find out.
1. Chapter 1: Uninterrupted

Disclaimer: I don't own Bones.

A/N: Okay, I have a longer project in mind and will be working on it, but also I just keep getting caught by how many times a minute, just 60 seconds, either way could have changed things for our favorite couple. My Peloponnesian War story was based on this idea, loosely, but I have a few more. One-shots, I assume, but I have never written a series like this. So we'll see. It'll be an adventure. 3sq. September 20-something, 2013

* * *

The One In Which Brennan and Booth Sneak Down to the Anok Exhibit and Get Interrupted 60 Seconds Later Than They Originally Did

Brennan smiles, then a beat later, says, "I have to speak. I hate these things."

"What are you talking about, Bones? You're great at these things. Listen, you changed history. How many people can say that?" Booth's voice is low and earnest. Their bodies shift. Somehow they move even closer.

"_You_ can." A huff of laughter. "Every arrest you make changes history. You make the world safer."

"With your help." His eyes are shining and steady on hers, but somehow vulnerable and boyish.

"So. Andrew. I thought you were going to take him to this thing. That's what he told me." They are so close that even their facial gestures are minimized. A twitch of an eyebrow signals his question, gentle but...insistent.

The tiniest tilt of her head, quirk of her lips. "I was, yes, but...you and I - this was our case and I guess...what goes on between us, that should just be ours. Isn't that what you said?"

He can't help but swallow even as his lips curve up. His throat is so dry. "Yeah."

The silence spins out. The faint whir of climate control systems. The very distant sounds of voices, a party. The incipient echo of shiny-shoed footsteps down marble steps.

She wants to touch him, maybe adjust his tie.

He wants to touch her, thinks about brushing the long, soft curl of her hair back.

Nothing interrupts them and her heart is racing _why, why does she feel so strange, it is just Booth. But she is so close to him, can feel his breath near hers. He shaved_, she thinks inanely.

Nothing interrupts them and his palms itch to just _touch her, trace along the curved edge of the top of her dress, stroke her skin where the black silk dips, low, between her breasts. _ He doesn't look but doesn't need to, her beautiful skin and curves imprinted on his retinas. He looked his fill, to his embarrassment, earlier that night. His palms remember, twitch at his sides.

It is so quiet, she can hear him breathe. He utters a word, a sound, that is hard to identify, and yet she wants to respond to it. Maybe not with her voice, maybe with her lips, her mouth, she wants to...taste the word. Swallow it. Then she'll know what it means. She smiles at her own foolishness, fancifulness. Temperance Brennan is not fanciful.

She smiles and he can't_, can't see what she is smiling at, doesn't know what she wants but he does, he does know. If it were any other woman he would know. He...thinks he knows what she wants, what he wants._

She almost feels relief when he drops his eyes to her mouth, glad that she is released from a gaze that burns. He is looking at her mouth and without permission or volition her chin tilts and she leans in. Her hands come to rest lightly at his waist _she is touching him and can feel the strong, lean, bulk of him almost pressed against her_. _Her legs want to fail her. _

She just leans into him and it takes every last ounce of his control _and now he doesn't have any left for later, not even a little_ to feel her warmth against him and not grab her and then _aw fuck_ her head tips back just like any other woman. _Oh my god she wants him to kiss her and jesus he wants to kiss her and it is Bones not some other woman and _then just like the rawest, greenest, youngest, most inexperienced boy in the world, he lunges across the distance between them. Like a dare. Like he doesn't _want_ to but _has_ to.

_Oh. Oh...my. _His lips are on hers and she has wondered and waited. _His lips could not possibly be as soft as she remembered, his tongue as talented, his smell as... Oh my. _Her head drops back farther and her mouth opens, wider, moving against his passionately and her hand slips up to the back of his head, the short prickly hair there _he got a haircut for tonight_ to pull him hard against her.

He can't think. Doesn't want to think. He just...a wave of resignation and tenderness sweeps over him. He is so tired of fighting this. She may not be like other women _whatever that means_ but she is his Bones and he has protected her _himself_ for so long that it is enough, finally, enough, to have her surrender. His whole body shudders when he feels her hand on his neck, in his hair, and there's no question of stopping any more.

She hears sounds, high pitched and needy, and knows they are coming from her. She feels the stream of air against her face and thrills to the knowledge that he _wants _her. Her, more than others. Than women with blond hair, or tall slim bodies, or normal ways of talking and seeing the world. There is no doubt in that moment, in her mind, that he believes he is fortunate. That he is worshipping her with his mouth, his hands. _Oh his hands_, heat seeping into her back through the thin silk.

Sniper senses. FBI. Special Agent. The spidey sense of any parent. Something. Something alerts him to people approaching. Before they are interrupted he pulls his mouth away quickly, but even quicker comes back, smothering her objections with his lips, this time pulling away by kissing along her jaw.

"_Bones," _he whispers.

"_Booth._" Her eyes are cloudy and dazed, and he sways a little at the passion he sees there. It weakens him and his own head tips back suddenly to gasp for air. The voices are louder.

"_Bones. Someone is coming. Just," _And he presses soft kisses under her ear, along the column of her neck and, unexpectedly, she feels the heat of his hand cup her breast.

And now she does lose structural integrity. Her whole body feels...well, _boneless_, and she presses into him, desperate, hungry for a firmer touch, for the rasp of his fingers.

He doesn't disappoint her, strokes outside of her dress, _presses_ the palm of his hand against her where she most wants and she is content, reaching for his mouth with hers again when she feels his other hand come up against her other side, burning and branding, but it is not what she thinks because suddenly she is set away from him and his arm is around her but not at her waist, but around her shoulders and neck, like they are buddies. _Oh, Bones, old buddy old pal_ he says something like that, something like a joke and she doesn't find it funny but she is so disoriented that she goes along with it and doesn't criticize such blatant nonsense and he is talking talking to Angela and Hodgins and the others and they are all laughing why are they so happy and he mumbles out of the corner of his mouth, "Smile, Bones" and that is an order like they are on a case and she does what he tells her like she always does—mostly—and so she smiles and remembers her speech and is ushered by him up the stairs to Angela and now she is more Dr. Brennan than Bones. She remembers that she needs to speak. Her body is on _fire_ and she needs to _speak._ She repeats that to herself several times as if it will help and then maybe it does because she does speak. People do applaud and the level of applause tells her she did well. Better than usual. Because Anok roused her personal engagement, the lost son of a devoted mother and brother. Or because she and Booth kissed. One or the other. Maybe both. She finally risks a glance at him. _Booth_.

He stands in the front row, clapping louder than everyone else. She takes his breath away. She is beautiful and so goddamned smart and none of it, none of it, is because of him. She is with him, his partner, and he has long since reconciled himself to the pride he feels because of her choice. He won't fool himself into thinking otherwise. Oh, she has things she wanted to learn that he could teach her but at the end of the day she is extraordinary. And still she chooses to work with him. Questioning it too closely has never led anywhere good so he has stopped, mostly. And now, now..._finally_, she has let him kiss her. He is going to rock her fucking world. _Bones_.

He stands in the front row, Booth, clapping louder than everyone else. Like he always does. She can't help but smile at his enthusiasm. She finds it hard to look away from him, even on display the way she is. She steps forward finally and takes his outstretched hand, lets him help her down the stairs. His hand touches her back, lightly, steers her gently forward, supporting her as she maneuvers and greets people. Despite the fact that she was the keynote speaker, she can see that people's eyes are drawn to Booth. As well they should be. He is...the best man she knows. He does what is right, doesn't back down. Whatever happens next, she recognizes that they are well matched. And, if she is honest, she recognizes that she just enjoys being with him. Always has.

Almost through the crowd finally, they pause and turn to look at one another. His face is not open any more, but shuttered and closed, almost forbidding. She knows this face well. This is his way of keeping what is theirs private, his way of protecting her.

Her face is as it often is, alight with curiosity-as effective a camouflage as any poker face. He can't look away.

The crowd mixes and surges suddenly, reassembling for tours and more drinks and Booth stumbles in uncharacteristic clumsiness. Brennan feels his breath and voice, resonant but raspy with tension, against her cheek.

"You want to go, Bones?"

She pulls back to meet his eyes. The tours have just started. They have hours before the night is over. And yet...she threads her hand into his and is rewarded by the quick convulsion of his fingers around hers, the equally quick flutter of his lashes blinking closed for a long moment.

"Yes, Booth."


	2. Chapter 2: Angela talks

Disclaimer: I don't own Bones.

A/N: Okay, I know. You were expecting Two Bodies in the Lab or a follow up to Aliens or something right? Nope, another fan favorite: Bikini in the Soup. WHAT? Hee hee! I love foiling expectations. Oh, and also Hole in the Heart. Hope you like it. 3sq 9/29/13

Also, a giant thank you to _dharmamonkey for the quick beta and E street!

* * *

The One in Which Angela Talks for Sixty Seconds Longer than She Originally Did

"So...this is a tough one, huh? Tonight?"

Booth, focused on the wedding planner's pink wedding planner computer screen, barely registers Angela's words as a question. They are sitting in the bullpen at the Hoover and she is perched above and next to him on the table. _Doesn't she ever sit down in a chair?_ "What?"

"You know...Valentine's Day. I mean, you just broke up with Hannah…it must be hard."

He cuts her off. "Not really." She starts to say something else. "It's over, okay? Hannah and I are done. I've moved on."

"Okay, so what are you going to do?"

"Nothing. Valentine's Day is not a holiday. It's made up by these greeting card companies and... florists." He makes his voice as cool and matter of fact as possible, hoping against hope she'll take the hint. "Angela, can we just focus on the case here?"

"Fine, Booth. I'm just saying, that maybe you should find _somebody else_ who's doing nothing, and do nothing together."

Since Hannah...left, he's gone back to basics. Angela's words, other people's expressions of concern, just divert him from that. He doesn't need it. He is focused on work, on Parker, on staying fit, being part of his hockey team, and March madness coming up. That's it, that's who he is right now. Bones, strangely enough, seems to understand this best. "Angela, I'm fine." He nods toward the computer. _Surely something will happen soon. She'll break into some encoded file or something. It'll happen soon. _He glances up at her. She has fallen briefly silent as she tap-tap-taps at the keyboard.

"There. Let's try _that_." He glares at the screen. _C'mon, c'mon…now. Or...now._ Nothing.

Angela starts talking again. He hopes that if he doesn't respond, she'll stop. She's saying something about how he can't avoid getting back out there forever and that going to the gym on Friday nights is a little bit pathetic. And that spending too many nights at the all night Classic Movie Theater on E St. isn't doing someone else who is avoiding relationships any good either. He almost ruins it all by smiling when she suggests that he is going to some secret FBI batcave instead of going clubbing.

It has probably only been sixty seconds since he started begging the computer silently to give up its secrets, but it feels like the longest 60 seconds of his day so far. Finally, _finally_, a new dialog box—he isn't entirely clueless—pops up and Angela stops mid-sentence to pour over the new information with him. Their wedding planner has left an electronic letter pointing the finger at her husband, should anything happen to her.

Booth jumps up, thanks her, and _runs away_ heads to his office to follow up on this new lead. He can feel Angela's eyes boring into his back as he walks away. Maybe _she_ has been visiting some kind of superhero batcave.

His conversation with Brennan later is much more reassuring, although he is uncomfortable with the way that men keep calling to ask her out. _Secret Service agent?_ He isn't ready to think about dating...anyone..yet, to go _there_ yet, but he isn't ready to watch Bones parade her lovers in front of him either. A tiny voice tells him that he is being unfair. She wouldn't do that.

"I find it a little bit insulting that they think that I'd be available at the last minute." Bones sounds feisty and irritated and he wants to smile.

"Well, you are."

"Yes, but they don't know that! And it's by choice - like you. It's a ridiculous holiday. The banks don't even close."

At least Bones understands. "I agree with you there. It is a ridiculous holiday. I think I'll just end up at the shooting range. I mean, it seems fitting."

"In honor of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre?"

Again, she makes him smile. "You know I never thought of it that way. But yeah—yeah. That's right."

"Sounds like fun." She looks right at him, in that way that she has, no pushing, no mind games. She takes him like he is, for who he is, where he is right now. He's grateful for that.

* * *

"Bones! What are you doing here?" She wheels in some kind of...casket? No, it's too small. Some kind of case on a rolling cart.

She gestures, still in her work clothes, blazer and slacks. Her face shows calm but he has known her long enough to recognize the spark of excitement in her eyes. His stomach drops. _What is this? _He is not up for more talk about Valentine's Day, thought they felt the same about this—

"Just…" she gestures again, "just open it." He does so, quickly, already bracing for—

And can barely hold back a shout of laughter. Goddamn Bones. She has brought him freaking _tommy guns_. Unbelievable. "_No…._"

And this is the best fucking Valentine's Day ever. For twenty minutes, he and Bones ham it up and shoot the bad guys from the 1940 's. Even after they use up all the ammo she brought, they stay a little longer, bring out their usual weapons for target practice. She really is very good. He's better, of course, but he'd be useless if he wasn't better than her at _something._

This is one of the only nights of the year that no one else is using the range and it closes early. Time to go. Booth helps Brennan clean and repack the tommy guns. When he closes the the lid on the last case, he lets a little of his gratitude show.

"Thanks, Bones." He meets and holds her eyes with his. Booth is sincere and tries to tell her without words what her understanding, her acceptance of his state of mind, means to him.

She seems to understand. "Sure, Booth." That little crooked smile of hers makes him smile.

"You just gonna go home now?"

She nods firmly. "Yes. I think will spend the night in." She doesn't elaborate or linger. "See you tomorrow?"

"Sure. Breakfast at the diner?"

"Yes. I'll meet you there, Booth. Good night." Her hair is longer than when he first returned and it hangs, dark and straight and shiny, her bangs long where they sweep across her face. Her eyes are bright in her pale face. _Does she seem tired?_ He wonders at it a little but it is the end of the day after all. He's going to go home too.

"Good night, Bones. Thanks again." He says softly as she walks away from him, toward the exit to the street. She has arranged for someone to retrieve the guns tomorrow morning.

She glances back, her mouth compressed into another small smile. "Sure, Booth. Anytime." And then she is gone.

* * *

Eight o'clock. Valentine's Day. He's home. There is a game on. He has beer. He's not hungry but if he gets hungry, he'll order something. It's a good night, right? _This_ is the way to celebrate Valentine's Day.

He wonders what Bones is doing. Maybe he should have asked her over. But he didn't want her to think...anything. But Bones doesn't. _Angela _does, not Bones. So maybe he should call her, see if she wants to join him. But maybe he shouldn't. He is probably not very good company. He looks at his phone. He can't decide. Fuck, what is he, a _girl_? He picks up the phone.

She's not home. Or she doesn't answer, at least.

Well, that's that then. Maybe she changed her mind, went out with the secret service agent after all.

Just in case, he calls her office phone even though she probably would have picked up her cell phone had she been at the office. She doesn't pick up the work phone either.

The thought of Angela brings to mind her irritating chatter of this morning. Criticizing what he does in his free time. Wait, didn't she say something about a classic movie theater, about _someone_ spending her free time there?

Booth turns off the TV and grabs his keys.

* * *

He sees her right away.

Unlike most movie theaters, the time between shows is not being filled with loud advertisements for tv shows and cars. The lights are on and while there are ads for local services showing on the big screen, there is no sound to accompany them. She is sitting in the middle of the third row. Her posture is the first giveaway. No one else sits quite as straight, and while she has changed into a sweater, her hair is still down. _Why is she sitting in the third row? _ The place isn't packed, but they are playing _Wuthering Heights_, of all things. One in a string of romantic movies in honor of Valentine's Day.

Booth is sitting down next to her, settling his water bottle and popcorn on his lap as she looks over at him in surprise. He didn't know what kind of reception to expect but she smiles at him happily. "_Hi_." There is a question in her greeting, the tone of her voice, the tilt of her head.

"Didn't feel like sitting home. I heard you like to go to the movies."

"Who..._Angela_." But she is still smiling, not mad.

"She might have mentioned something." He holds out the bag to her. She takes a handful of popcorn. She reaches and then offers him Raisinettes. She laughs when he makes a face.

"Fruit doesn't belong in candy." Her expression changes then. Her acting has gotten better, but she really is an open book to him. She looks undecided and a little secretive. And now he raises _his_ eyebrows at _her_ in inquiry.

"_Bones_?" Her mouth twists in amusement, at herself apparently, and reaches again. More boxes appear before him. Junior Mints. Milk Duds.

"Hah!" He is full out laughing now. A candy hound. Who would have guessed. He doesn't comment though, just takes a handful of Milk Duds.

They both settle in, looking forward at the screen of advertisements as they talk. "You really like _Wuthering Heights_, huh, Bones?"

She glances over at him, quickly, her face confused. "How did you come to that conclusion?"

"Well," he gestures at the screen before them, "we _are_ about to watch it and also you used it earlier when we trapped Greg Bovitz."

"Oh, yes." She relaxes in her seat again. "Well, I actually do not like_ Wuthering Heights_. The main characters are unrealistic and irritatingly melodramatic. Once I got home, I decided I would rather be out and I like old movies, but this is not one of my favorites."

Booth didn't respond to her assessment of the movie. "I saw that they are showing movies all night, for Valentine's Day."

"Yes. I actually," she shoots him another look, "really want to see the next movie but it won't start until eleven and I'm not sure I want to stay up that late."

"What is it?" Booth hasn't checked the list.

"_The Philadelphia Story_."

When he doesn't respond, she turns her face to him again. Just to see her smile again, he announces in a cheesey poncy accent, "Doggone it, C.K. Dexter Haven. Either I'm gonna sock you or you're gonna sock me." And now _Bones_ laughs.

"And why are we sitting in the third row?"

"You joined me, Booth. You have to sit where I want."

"I'm just wondering, Bones."

She shrugs. "I don't know, really. I just like it here, close to the movie."

As he sits there next to her, a smile on both their faces, Booth feels something in him ease. He can breath a little easier somehow but before he feels the unwelcome need to analyze the feeling, the lights dim and a last glimpse of Bones' face shows the eagerness of every kid in every movie theater everywhere. Pleased, he settles in to watch.

The movie is just as torrid and overdone as the book, not that he actually read the book—he does read but 19th century romances are not really his thing. Nevertheless, it felt really good, sitting next to her in the dark, watching a movie. He thought about what it would be like to take her hand, to drape his arm across her shoulders, as he had done to so many girls and women in the past. He couldn't really picture it. Bones in a movie theater was disorienting enough. Her hand would be warm and strong in his, though.

"Well?"

She looks at him, blinking in the new light. "Well, what?"

"Stay for _The Philadelphia Story_?"

"Booth, we have work tomorrow."

"So we're tired. We'll live. Or better yet," he smiles a full-on charm smile at her and it grows wider when he sees her face get suspicious, "let's call in sick tomorrow."

"But we're not sick."

"No, but we'll be tired. And we _never_ do anything like that. No one would expect it, or care if they did. C'mon…" He leans and bumps her shoulder with his. "Be wild. It's St. Valentine's Day Massacre Day."

She smiles at his foolishness. "We'll see. But yes. Let's stay and watch the movie." She rises and takes herself off to the restroom.

When she gets back, he says to her, only half joking, "If you get tired, you can sleep on my shoulder if you want."

Missing the double-voicing, his reference to the long tradition of girls cuddling up to a boys in movie theaters under the pretense of sleepiness, Brennan dismisses his offer. "_I_ will be watching the movie, Booth. If _you_ get sleepy, you may use my fleece as a pillow." She hands him the jacket. He looks at it and bemused, leaves it in his lap.

In the end, it _is_ Booth who falls asleep and when he wakes, it is because the lights come on. His eyes come to rest immediately on her face in profile, watching the credits. He is filled with the certainty, though, that just before he woke, she might have been looking at _him_, not the credits at all.

He can hear the roughness in his voice as he asks, "What time is it?"

"It's 1:14, Booth. You missed most of the movie."

"I guess I was more tired than I thought." He rubs his eyes and stands, stretching. "I feel pretty good now though. What's next?"

"What? Next is home. And bed." She rises too, reaching for her fleece. He holds it out for her to put on, and she turns, allowing him to help her into it.

"Bones, aren't you hungry? I'm _starving_."

A bubble of disbelieving laughter from Bones. "Booth, it's really late."

He resists the urge to sling his arm around her, but does usher her up the aisle before him, his hand resting in the small of her back. "Bones, let's go to the diner. Come have breakfast in the middle of the night with me."

Apparently he hasn't lost his touch, despite recent months of self-doubt. "Fine, Booth. Far be it to me to quash your enthusiasm on this made up holiday." Her tone isn't as acerbic as her words, though, and she lets him walk her to her car and then he follows in his. At the diner, they eat with several other regulars, late-shift workers mostly, but also their regular waitress. She laughs as Brennan orders a second order of fries "in honor of the ridiculous holiday", and brings Booth pie on the house for the same reason.

It is pushing 3 am when Booth double-parks the truck and walks Brennan up to her apartment. He takes the stairs two at a time and jogs in place at the landings. Finally, in response to his jaunty walk down the hall, Brennan observes. "Booth, you are surprisingly energetic for 3 in the morning."

"You know, Bones, you're right. Must be that little nap I had. Maybe we should go see the sunrise somewhere—"

She cuts him off. "No, Booth. I am going to bed." She laughs at his crestfallen expression, knowing he is hamming it up. She unlocks the door and then stands in the crack, pushing him playfully away. "Go. Go home." He takes the hint and walks down the hall, waving a hand behind him goodbye. At the stairwell door he turns. "Still on for breakfast, Bones?"

He is glad to see her still standing there, in her door. "Yes, Booth. But we had better make it lunch."

His hand is on the door to push it open but still he doesn't move. "Good night, Bones."

She, too, has not moved. "Good night, Booth." He can't see her expression from this distance and wishes he could.

* * *

[Several months later]

I know the words are only true in my head, not my heart, but I also know that it is important to say the words, now, to these people.

"I don't blame myself for this, Sweets. I blame the guy who pulled the trigger."

After a long silence, Sweets says, "Okay."

"You still have blood on your hands."

Bones. I don't know what to say to her, at least not while everyone else is here too. I know her better than anyone on Earth, and I probably know more about this kind of loss than most people too. Since Vincent bled out under my hands, I have been worried about her. What she says to me now barely registers, as does Angela's response.

"She means literally, Booth."

I tell them to go home, to take a little time. I reassure these people, my people, best I can, but the pressure to get them out of there, get Bones somewhere safe is a runaway freight train in my head, the noise of it bearing down, loud and smokey, screeching wheels and warning whistles.

Bones and I are alone finally and I stop her from following the others out of the conference room.

"Bones. We're staying at my apartment tonight." She starts to object. I knew she would. It's her turn and she wants the comfort of her own apartment, but I need...I _need_ to keep her safe. I can only do that at my apartment. I have weapons, have the exits mapped...it's just _safer._

She gives in, nodding briefly. "Okay."

Then...she surprises me. She leans in and kisses me. Closed-mouthed but intense, full of longing and mutual comfort. I take it, let my mouth move under hers in response and reassurance. I cup her face with my hands and just _feel_. The taste of her, her breath. This is the first time she has kissed me in public. I am grateful to not have to wait until we are at my apartment. Finally she ends the kiss but stays only a breath away, our faces so close that we keep our eyes shut rather than feel dizzy. I murmur against her mouth.

"I am so sorry, Bones."

"I...I…" she stumbles over the words, "I just can't quite believe it. I know it isn't rational but I keep thinking that it didn't happen, that it _couldn't_ have happened."

"I know...Bones." I want to use an endearment. We made love just this morning, and now someone really important to her has died. But we haven't gone there yet. Our relationship is still so new, still unshared with anyone. So I settle for leaning back a little, opening my eyes and stroking the side of her face with my fingers; I smooth her hair.

She breathes in, then exhales tiredly, leans forward to press against my face one last time. "When can we go?"

And I am glad, so glad, that we got to this place together before this terrible thing happened. Glad that when we get to my apartment, Bones hangs her coat from the hook she uses and leaves her bag under it. Glad that she has a toothbrush and a few weekend clothes in a drawer in my bedroom. There aren't any nightclothes in the drawer though. She either doesn't wear any or she wears one of my tshirts, depending on how our night goes.

We don't make love that night, but she crawls onto my lap and cries and cries. Our bodies know each other now and there is a lot of comfort to be found in this fact. I hold her and stroke her back and make her drink a big glass of water when the worst of the storm is over. I need to take care of Broadsky tomorrow, so while she doesn't think she can sleep, I know the trick of it. Know that I can close my eyes, sleep the few hours I need. I bring her with me under the covers and curl around her, hoping that my sleep is contagious or that at least, she'll rest.

"Booth?" Her voice does sound sleepy.

"Yes, Bones?"

"I am glad that...well, I am glad that we are together right now. I don't know how...how…" she takes a deep breath, her muscles convulsing a little and the air shuddering through her from her earlier crying.

"I know, Bones." I nuzzle my face into her neck until my lips touch skin rather than silky hair. "I am glad too. Go to sleep, if you can. Okay?"

Her hand squeezes mine. "You too, Booth. Good night."

"Good night, babe." I am half asleep already and can't be held responsible for what slips out of my mouth. She doesn't protest.


	3. Chapter 3: Trust Exercises

**Disclaimer: I am yelling this particularly loudly this time because I have a lot of actual dialogue from the episode Secret in the Soil woven throughout. I do not own Bones.**

**A/N: Wendish, excellent ff writer that she is, just posted a story called Detente in which she referred to the trust exercises Sweets had B&B doing in the first episode with them in therapy, Secret in the Soil. I was inspired to write **_**my**_** story because of **_**her**_** story. Thanks, Wendish. Thanks also to Bones Twitter friends Geraghtyvl, Frankie707, SarahInPrint, and Riona Gallagher for knowing which episode was the first one with Sweets when I was too lazy to look. (I like to think I was too busy thinking up the story to look, but who am I kidding?) Also, many thanks to dharmamonkey for her quick and effective beta work on the last chapter. I forgot to thank her there in the rush to post before the work week began and rather than correct it and have no one see, I thought I would thank her there. Without her, you would have experienced VTV: Verb Tense Vertigo. Also thank you for her story Man to Man which posted this week. Mmmm.**

**Good luck with the work/school week, everyone. If you have a minute, remember the teachers in your lives. By the beginning of October, the ones you feel are really getting your kids could use a note. Like a review here, just the smallest note or email, with an example of something that is working for your son or daughter, can inspire and lead to more of the good stuff. Oh, and they all feed kids who don't have lunch. A box of granola bars, pretzels, a bag of apples, not to mention tissue boxes, white board markers, and pencils are always welcome. **

**Okay, onto the story. This was one of those where I had so many ideas as I wrote, I basically felt bad the whole time for all the things I was leaving out. Ouch. I finally decided that all the scenes should take place in or around Sweet's office. I don't know from trust exercises, as my mother in law would say. They are totally made up.**

**3sq October 6th 2013**

* * *

"Okay, Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth. Together. A little closer. Okay, yeah, that's perfect. Beautiful. Now keeping your back straight, I want you each to lean forward." I was ready to do it. I had already given up my Saturday night to do this-better that than interrupt the work week-and was enjoying the proximity of my partner, his warm hands pressed against mine.

"No."

"Excuse me?" Sweets looks surprised by Booth's sudden objection, but I am not. This boy doctor has a lot to learn about my partner.

"Come on, Booth. I'm sure this is just one of those meaningless exercises meant to illustrate the importance of supporting each other."

"We agreed to see another therapist, not be action figures for a 12-year-old." I'm not sure what this means, but it seems to anger Dr. Sweets.

"I'm 22, Agent Booth. I have a doctorate in psychology from the University of Pennsylvania, where my dissertation on the effects of job stress was published."

"That's great. I'm sure your mother is really proud of you, Sweets."

"Dr. Sweets, or Lance, you know, if you're more comfortable with informality, but I'd prefer, out of respect for each other and the process of psychotherapy, that we at least try to, uh…"

"Sign the forms so I can get out of this suit and I can have a Saturday night."

I interject again. "I don't care how young you are. I've never believed in psychotherapy."

Dr. Sweets starts to speak again, and I don't hear any change in tone, but Booth stiffens next to me. From his body language I know something is changing. I have learned to take Booth's reactions to things seriously. "Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan, this isn't a game. The FBI is considering severing your partnership."

Despite the forewarning, I blurt out, "What?", at the same time that Booth asks, "Why?"

The answer comes quickly but is confusing. "Why? Dude, you arrested her father." My father is a criminal. Booth is an F.B.I. agent. What does this "doctor" think he should have done?

"He was just doing his job."

"Yeah, but come on, he, like, he arrested your father. He's going to have to be a witness against him. Circumstances such as these tend to stir up a lot of scary feelings." Is he saying I am scared? Of...Booth? That can't be right. I'm not stupid, obviously, or unfeeling. I feel lots of things, just not what or when other people do. When Booth betrayed my confidence to the prosecutor in one of our first trials together, revealed that I had been in the foster system in order to help secure a conviction against two people who had killed a girl and dumped her in a refrigerator..._then_ I was uncertain whether the trust between us could be repaired, or continue to build. But we had gotten past that. This thing with my father was the opposite of that. Booth continues to _help_ me figure out my relationship with my father. But Booth is still talking, still trying to intimidate our therapist.

"I don't have scary feelings. Maybe you need a little night-light at night to sleep."

"Agent Booth, you've been trying to intimidate me since the moment you stepped in here. And you've succeeded."

"Don't...scare the boy, Booth." I know that a grown man will not take to being called "boy" and hope to distract him.

Perhaps it works because instead of continuing to escalate the exchange, Dr. Sweets changes topics. "Now, I need you both to, uh, fill out these questionnaires and get 'em back to me. Don't share your answers. It'll help me evaluate whether Dr. Brennan's services should be signed to a new agent."

"That's not going to happen." His voice is cold and again, I am aware of how I am coming to know my partner's moods. This voice indicates the beginnings of real anger, not just irritation. I don't know whether this Dr. Sweets actually has the power he claims, to break up our partnership, but I am aware that issues of conflict of interest are important to prosecutors and law enforcement agencies. He could definitely make trouble. I would like to keep this man pacified.

"Like it or not, Agent Booth, I'm the therapist in charge of this case, so I suggest that we work in cooperation rather than conflict."

"I can cooperate. In fact…" I check my watch, wondering what evidence I can provide before we leave this office that my trust in Booth is still reliable and resilient. I _do _trust Booth. Every day I trust him with my physical well being. "...Even taking into account the closing remarks I anticipate you both making in an effort to have the last word in order to establish your dominance, we still have approximately two minutes left. I would like to resume the trust exercises."

Both men were looking at me in surprise. I don't know this Dr. Sweets at all really, but his eyes are wide, almost comically so. Booth is more subtle. He knows me and his look says, "What are you up to?" I don't change my expression at all—_trust me_—and, after an extra second or two, Booth plays along. He clasps his hands together and stands. "Okay, Bones, what do you have in mind? Let's make it quick."

Dr. Sweets rises and starts to say something but I override him. "I believe we should move right to the culmination of this activity. As I understand these exercises, the "trust fall" is the most meaningful evidence of trust. Booth, please stand approximately 1.25 meters away from me."

In the interest of time, probably, Booth doesn't even object to my use of the metric system, but moves accurately into position. I know it is a little bit of showmanship, but rather than ask Booth if he is ready, I just turn and fall backwards, careful to keep my body straight and stiff. Booth catches me easily. I don't even feel my stomach drop until he pulls me up against him afterwards. Strange. I disentangle myself quickly and move away from him, glancing at Sweets.

He has obviously decided not to object and while he is standing, he is just watching, arms crossed.

"Back into position, Booth." Now he looks like he will object, but when his eyes slide to Sweets and back to me, I know he won't disagree with me publicly.

"Face the window." Again, a split second's hesitation and then he turns away from me. "Fall." And, of course, I catch him. He is heavy, and I have to back up quickly and he ends up hovering only inches over the floor, but he is safe. Despite the disparities in our sizes and body masses, I know that I am more than strong enough to catch him if I need to.

I have to admit, it was exhilarating, catching Booth. Interesting. Maybe I wondered if I was strong enough to support him physically, as a partner. The chances were good that if not for me, he would have been assigned a male partner at some point, someone who would have matched him better, physically? I can feel heat in my cheeks, from success. Before I can stop myself, I am crossing the room to the window. One last demonstration…

"Bones, wha—"

"Dr. Brennan, can I—"

The two men speak simultaneously but only one follows me. I climb up onto a chair, then onto the sill of the window.

Booth stands where he stopped a few meters away looking up at me quizzically. Before he can speak, I say, "Catch me, Booth." And I jump.

While I'm in the air, I hear a squeak from the young doctor but nothing from Booth. And sure enough, in seconds, he has caught me mid-air, and I am draped across his strong arms. Close up for only a few instants before he lets me down, I smell his aftershave, see that his lips are lightly chapped, and notice that his arms and chest are rock solid. He is not breathing heavily or showing any strain at supporting my weight. My stomach flips again. Another delayed reaction. I set this aside for further analysis. Booth grins and shouts as he lets me down with flair.

"Hah HAH! Good one, Bones. Take THAT, Sweets. Unrehearsed. Total trust." He turns to me and holds his hand up. I high five him. "Over-achievers, as usual." Booth's voice is more cheerful than anytime before, this night.

Dr. Sweets nods his head, conceding perhaps? I'm not sure. I cannot read this person at all. "Very good." The whole exercise has taken almost exactly one minute, I think smugly. The man continues. "Agent Booth? Dr. Brennan. You have your assignment. I will see you at our regular time, on Thursday."

"What? I told you, Dr. Sweets, I do not want valuable work time interrupted by a pseudoscientific attempt to—"

Sweets—yes, I am going to call him Sweets too— repeats himself forcefully and I remember the threat to our partnership and close my mouth.

Booth echoes my sentiments exactly. "I'm still going to call you Sweets."

Sweets nods a little and his eyes shift to the side before he says, "Yep."

I wonder who won this exchange, Booth or Sweets. Sweets' body language and tone could indicate resignation and weary acceptance of our recalcitrance which would mean that Booth had the last word, at least from a dominance standpoint, if not literally. On the other hand, _Sweets_ did have the final utterance, meaning that he won the dominance contest as well. At the memory of flying through the air and being caught by Booth, however, I feel...something...pride maybe, elation certainly, and follow Booth out.

In the car on the way home, we decide to get something to eat together for dinner, but Booth is adamant that he wants to change out of his suit. So 30 minutes later, we are back in the car, Booth more comfortable in jeans, t-shirt, and one of his army jackets. This is good because he spends the whole night and most of the next day in those clothes, as we begin an investigation into the death of a local organic produce magnate.

The test we have been given by Dr. Sweets is some kind of personality test and Booth doesn't seem to be taking it seriously. Not that I blame him; I do not accept the evidence that supports this kind of test as valid. Nevertheless, it is an our assignment, he could at least try to do the work himself. Over the next several days, he refers to the test often but only to try to get me to reveal my answers. I have no real confidence that he has completed the assignment.

* * *

I'm surprised then, on Thursday morning when Booth pulls out his booklet and writes his name on the top right corner, as if it is a test in high school. We're in the waiting area outside of Sweet's office. Booth picked me up a little early and now he leans forward where he sits next to me on the couch, half turning to look at me and speaking softly and intently.

"So, Bones, I was thinking. I think that Sweets is going to try to push us to do more trust exercises."

"What? Why? We passed his trust exercises!" I can't believe it. I thought we were done with that.

Booth nods in agreement. "I thought so too. Your little stunt in there certainly silenced him," I smirk a little, "but—" and now Booth's lips twist as they do when he is about to utter what he considers an unpalatable truth, "I don't think Sweets will leave it at that." Booth rubs his jaw, still very clean shaven this early in the morning. "I think he's going to say that physical risk, trusting our physical well-being to each other, is the easiest kind of trust. I think he is going to push us to show our trust in each other in other ways."

I think about this. It does sound plausible. "You mean...like...something emotional?" It's what I think psychologists want to talk about all the time.

Booth nods grimly in agreement, but doesn't seem cowed. "So. I was thinking that we should scoop him, keep him from pushing us into something only _he_ wants."

If Booth has a plan that will keep us from talking about our emotions, I am all for it. "What did you have in mind, Booth?" Just then, though, the door opens and Sweets steps out to gesture us in. Booth rises and turns toward me, ostensibly to help me up off the couch but he hisses quietly, "Just follow my lead this time, Bones." I nod and try to let go of his hand, but it isn't until Booth ushers me in ahead of him that he seems to realize that he needs to let go too.

Thirty-four minutes later, I have begun to hope, actually, that Booth is wrong, that trust exercises won't come up again, when Sweets says, "Two independent people often find themselves...Agent Booth, are you listening?"

Booth has his knee up against the table flipping his phone for messages. We are waiting for a call from the judge.

"What?"

I am a little worried that Booth's disrespect will hurt our case. "The judge will call when the warrant is issued, Booth, pay attention."

"What, I'm in the middle of an investigation. I get distracted."

"So it's not my investigation, too?"

"It's too early in the morning for this."

"No, no, no, this is good, let's talk about conflict. When you guys argue, how do you come to a resolution?"

"We don't argue."

"Come on, remember, zone of truth, right here."

"Fine. We might bicker a little bit, but that's not arguing."

"Bicker? I don't bicker."

"No? What about the whole environmentalism thing?"

"That was a discussion."

"You pretty much told me my penis was going to shrink if I didn't eat organic food."

"That's not bickering, that's being a good friend." We could do this all day. The minutes are flying by and we may just get through this without more trust exercises.

"My penis is just fine, thank you."

"Now we're getting somewhere. All right, I think we're in that truth zone. I would like you to use that space to try another exercise with me. Given how well you did with physical trust exercises—"

Booth interrupts him and I can't help being impressed. It seems entirely natural. "Stop with the whole truth zone thing, alright? Bones and I are trying to catch a guy who cooked a tree hugger. So just score the personality test so we can get back to crime fighting."

"Yeah, that's good, Agent Booth. Now let the anger lead you to the fear. You can't be whole, you can't do your job to its fullest, unless you get in touch with that fear you feel. Now Dr. Brennan and I are going to close our eyes—"

"Sweets, why should we do this? Like last week, can't we just skip to the end? We can probably pass the test and be done with this sooner."

"Agent Booth, the exercise you skipped last time did not have the same goal as the one you completed and by skipping it, you showed me something but not what I actually wanted to see."

Booth seems genuinely nonplussed and I wondered if he has lost control of the conversation.

"Well, okay then, Sweets. We'll do that one instead. I mean, we probably shouldn't jump ahead to the next one." Sweets must look suspicious at Booth's easy capitulation, although I can't tell, because Booth grumbles convincingly, "Although one stupid exercise is the same as the other to me." And Booth looks, for a minute, like he is going to get up and leave.

Sweets speaks quickly, "Fine, Agent Booth. Fine. Please stand in front of Dr. Brennan, palms together." Booth sighs and slowly rises, but as he turns toward me he winks. Reassured, I stand too and take my place from Saturday, my warm palms against his even warmer ones. I shift my hands against his slowly, up and down just enough to feel the callouses against my skin. I realize that both men are now are looking at me, waiting for an answer to a question I didn't hear.

"Excuse me?" I decide not to explain.

Sweets starts to say something but Booth says, "I think Bones is tired from that stakeout the other day."

I wonder at the non sequitur but do not want to challenge Booth in front of Sweets.

Sweets tries again, "Dr. Brennan, are you comfortable? Not too cold, too warm? Do you need a drink of water?"

I decline and take a deep breath, tipping my head back slightly to meet Booth's eyes head on. Sweets voice comes from the side, between us. "Please move a little closer together. A little closer. Okay, yeah, that's perfect. Beautiful. Now keeping your back straight, I want you each to lean forward. Let the air you breathe reach as deep inside you as possible. Breath out when you want to. Do not break eye contact until you cannot look at the other without your eyes crossing. Then you may close your eyes. I am going to ask you to continue leaning on each other and in a minute, talk to each other, even though you will be in each other's personal space. Keep leaning closer until you feel the need to close your eyes. Slowly, slowly."

I try to keep my eyes focused. It is suddenly very important to be the last one to close my eyes. I desperately want to see Booth's eyelids close. Even as we move very slowly toward each other, I count the gold flecks in his deep brown irises. It isn't often you get a chance to stare at someone's eyes. And Booth has extraordinarily beautiful eyes. I have always wanted to look closely at their shape but was held back by the knowledge that most people are disconcerted to the point of irritation by such scrutiny. Perhaps Booth feels the same because his eyes flicker as he looks into my own—_what does he see?_ I blink several times trying, _trying_ to maintain clear vision. In the end, I am as certain as I can be that we close our eyes at the same time; I watch the little muscles to the side of his eyes twitching in release just as my eyes close.

Because I have been so determined to keep my eyes focused, we have gotten very very close without my worrying about the unusual proximity to my partner. Now, with my eyes closed, I am hyper aware of it. One of us must sway a little because, close as we are, I feel my nose brush his, smell his breath. I am so glad, suddenly, that we agreed to have breakfast on the way back, so that my breath could only smell like toothpaste or coffee, as his does.

I almost jump at Sweet's voice, soft though it is. "Agent Booth, if you would, please tell Dr. Brennan what you had for dinner last night."

Booth's hands tense against mine and I suspect that he wants to object but doesn't because he doesn't want to talk in my face. Instead, he reports what he ate for dinner, and it is good that I can multitask because while I am not paying attention to _what_ he is saying, I know with the certainty of a long-time student, that I could recite it verbatim later if I needed to. His voice is low and I am pleasantly surprised to feel similarly to when I was looking at his eyes. My curiosity is being satisfied and I am enjoying the feeling of getting information I have always wanted. Without my sight, minute changes in tone, the way Booth says his vowels, his faint Philadelphia accent, the rasp on lower notes that indicates, perhaps, a long-time node on one of his vocal cords, are all evident. I repress a shiver when he concludes with "apple pie".

"Very good. And now you, Dr. Brennan." I comply and wonder what Booth hears in my voice that makes his hands tense again.

When I finish, Sweets doesn't say anything and Booth and I stay close. Suddenly, I feel awful, awash, overwhelmed by a rush of violation that comes whenever someone has crossed one of my personal boundaries. Before I break, I hear Booth murmur, so low that Sweets couldn't possibly make out the word even if he heard the whisper, "stakeout". And the meaning of Booth's earlier hint becomes clear.

Last week on stakeout, one of my first really long ones, Booth and I talked about what it takes to stay alert for so long, in such close quarters. Keeping one's mind active turns out to be an essential part of this and I am good at this. Instead of fighting the...I balk at the idea that I am afraid...feeling of violation, I let it wash through me even as I start counting prime numbers up from 2. I only make it to 103 before the exercise is done. Probably the whole thing only took a minute or so. And yet, I feel like I have been breathing Booth's air for hours, my hands pressed against his, now slick with sweat thanks to my little panic attack.

"You may open your eyes now and step slowly away from one another. Be careful. Sometimes it is hard to reorient and regain individual balance, having sustained shared balance as well as you both did." Sweet's approval is clear, even to me, and the burst of relief is enough to allow me to regain equanimity rather than run screaming from the room. Because that is what I want. I want to run from the room and I want to keep on running. Not now, though. I repeat it. Not now. Now I am okay.

"That's enough, Sweets. That was stupid. We ate together last night. I already knew what she had." Booth grabs his phone from the table and starts to leave.

Sweets waves his hands wildly. "Wait. Wait, let's just take a minute to process what you accomplished. Please...please sit down." The man is almost pleading. I glance at Booth and he rolls his eyes at me but I can feel the intensity in his gaze. He is asking if I am okay. I press my lips together in a little nod to let him know I am even as I sit, masking our non-verbal interaction from Sweets. Booth breathes out angrily and sits next to me.

"Okay. I can tell you are frustrated. Angry. Follow the anger, all right? Feel it? Now let the anger lead you to the fear. You can't be whole, you can't do your job to its fullest, unless you get in touch with that fear you feel. Now Dr. Brennan and I are going to close our eyes—Feel it softening. You feel that?"

Sweets closes his eyes but we don't close ours. I smile happily at Booth with my eyes—Sweets couldn't have given us a bigger gift—and he rolls his theatrically, making me laugh a little. The sound of a text coming to Booth's phone comes just as Sweets realizes we are laughing at him.

"Very mature, guys."

Booth helps me up and turns to Sweets with mock disappointment. "Got to run, Sweets. Got the call. Let's boogie, Bones. And, um, look, next time, you really should tell me if there's going to be an essay on the test." He tosses his completed booklet across the table to Sweets. I place mine carefully on top of Booth's and follow Booth out, still speechless since I last spoke into the tiny space between Booth and me.

* * *

Our next appointment is Saturday, in the morning so that Booth won't miss his afternoon game at the sports facility that houses his favorite team. I'm not sure why we have another appointment so soon but when I object Booth explains that he pressured Andrew to discover that Sweets has a maximum of five sessions to make a determination about splitting us up or not. Any meetings after that time will not be evaluative in the same way and should focus on work, rather than personal, issues.

We talk about the likelihood that he will try out more trust exercises on us and agree that it is probable.

"Well, you know, Bones, we are dominating his stupid exercises. It's two-zero right now." His arrogance seems well earned to me and I smirk at him.

"We do make an extraordinary team. I found it quite interesting that I could tell when you were uncomfortable in our last meeting."

He smirks back, "I could tell when you were uncomfortable too. We back each other up. That's what partner's do. Sweets should know that already." He holds the door to the Hoover open for me.

"Well, what about now? Anything you can think of that will help us prevail today?" I am half turned back to ask this and we enter the elevator with several other people I recognize.

"Nah, Bones," he grins, cocky and self-assured. "We can handle it. I trust you. You trust me." Something about his syntax or inflection makes this sound like a pact, so I hold out my hand to shake. He shakes it firmly and meets my eyes. I realize that his eyes are not as cocky as the rest of him. They are soft on mine, and...concerned maybe? He is asking me, like he did before, if I am okay. "Right?"

I nod, forcing a conviction I suddenly don't feel. "Right." And hold his gaze as well as I can. When the doors ding their way open, I drop his hand and exit with the others getting off at Sweets' floor.

The first half of the session is reassuringly devoid of useful content or conclusions. Sweets initiates a discussion of the different individual, social, and work styles that characterize us based on our questionnaire responses. He hasn't let us see our tests, nor has he summarized the results. Shoddy presentation, but what can you expect from a pseudo-science like psychology? I'm relieved at the lack of trust exercises, but am not totally surprised when, at the 40 minute mark, Sweets asserts that he would like to end our time together with another one. Booth breathes in deeply and then out again, turning to look at me as if to say, "Shall we let him?" As if we have a choice. I feel manipulated and frustrated, on the other hand, the last two have been illuminating..not in the way Sweet's intended, but by giving me the opportunity to observe my partner in ways I have not previously.

"So to begin, if you would both take your shoes off."

Booth's response is immediate. "What? _No_. No way." Definite. And...something else. I suspect that what I am hearing is fear, but I know too that Sweets—even if he is perceptive enough to pick up the tone in Booth's voice—will not be able to identify it. Booth is better than I am at hiding his feelings; it is one of the great secrets and myths of our relationship, that I am harder to read than Booth. At the touch of my fingers on his wrist, he turns to me, but I am looking at Sweets, drawing his attention away from Booth.

"Sweets," I begin, deliberately irritating him by using Booth's belittling name for him, one that I have refrained from using so far this session, "what could you possibly want us to do with our shoes off?"

He tries to impose his authority as he begins to answer with a voice made extra firm and enhanced with a higher amplitude, but his authority is bestowed, given to him, as yet unearned. My authority, however rarely I use it—despite what people choose to think and read into my manner—is earned. By years of training, classes, digs, at this point hundreds of publications, speaking engagements, guest lecture appointments, keynote speaker presentations, awards and honorary titles. _Who does this neophyte think he is?_ With the certain knowledge of my professional superiority, knowing that any student of any discipline, however ill-conceived, could not fail to be inculcated in the norms of the academic hierarchy, I speak. Unambiguously, and without big words, for Booth.

"_Doctor. Sweets_." He falls quiet immediately. "Unless you can elucidate your practice well enough that _both_ Booth and I understand completely, even if we do not agree, we will not be going any farther today." I would like to get through this session, not make an enemy, but Booth's _feet_…

Sweet's jaw has shifted forward and his lips are slightly pursed. I can see the moment he gives in though, and I am grateful, if not suprised.

"Very well. It is my belief that all tasks related to evaluation can and should be therapeutic as well. As you say, my practice is just that, practice. So the trust exercises I choose for my patients not only provide the participants, and me, with information on how much and the kind of trust that has formed, but they also serve to generate more trust when entered into willingly."

He clears his throat and his voices changes although I don't know what the change means. "I can see now that I have not paid enough attention to making sure you are informed and willing, to helping you see why you should participate and for that I am sorry. This particular trust exercise is predicated—based—on the idea that the feet are one of the most protected and personal of spaces, for many people a foot massage is more intimate than sex. I do not ask all my patients to try this one, but because you and Agent Booth have already blended the personal with the professional—" He must see the objection—_we are just partners_—on my lips because he rushes ahead, "—because he has helped you find your father, your brother, and now has had cause to arrest your father, I wanted to see," and now he leans forward, earnest. "I wanted _you_ to see just how far that trust extends, on a personal level. There is really nothing professional about holding each other's feet," he admits ruefully and then adds, "and that is _all_ I am asking you to do. Hold each other's feet. No massage, no tickling, no tricks."

"And assuming that we understand and will allow you to proceed, how will this part of the evaluation impact your final consideration? In other words, if this is a test of sorts, is it one of the final ones?"

Sweets nodded. "I am planning on making a final decision next session, our fourth one. This would be one of the final exercises that contribute to my evaluation."

Hooey, of course. Balderdash. Bunkum. But a relatively straightforward way to get through to the end of this ridiculous evaluation, if Booth can stand it. Sweets has no way of knowing about the torture Booth endured as a P.O.W. and how his feet were injured. I have succeeded in one thing, though, in the last few minutes; I have bought Booth some time. I turn to my partner. He is ostensibly relaxed, but even Sweets can't fail to perceive the tension coiled in his body. Booth's eyes are on mine and I am not sure I have ever seen this look, this expression. Intense, and something else. I...don't know, but I feel protective suddenly, even more than I already did, so I might be seeing fear. I can feel that Booth doesn't look away from me even when I turn back to Sweets.

"Alright, Sweets. I'll go first." Sweets nods and says, "Thank you." He sits back in his chair, hands entwined in front of his chin, obviously thinking that the hard part is over. Well, it probably is, for him.

I lean over and strip off my socks and shoes, glad it is a Saturday and I don't have to leave the room to take off hose. I turn to Booth. "Ready? To...hold my feet?" I let all the disdain I feel, show when I say this, inviting Booth to share the joke, the ridicule. I learned this from him and hope he takes me up on it.

His voice is strained, a little higher-pitched than usual but he manages a chuckle. "Sure, Bones. I hope I can handle it." He shifts toward me a little, and gestures in invitation. I stretch across the couch and lay my legs on his lap. His hands come to rest involuntarily, it seems, on my lower calves. And so, he strokes down my legs—unfortunately bristly since I didn't have warning that I needed to shave-before the heat of his hands wrap around my feet.

And now, of all times, I wish the line between us doesn't exist.

He holds my feet and probably isn't even thinking about how he is holding my feet, so worried is he about his own trial coming up, but for me, the way he holds them, firmly, his fingers stroking a little bit on the tops, his thumb shifting to press gently into the arches, is enough to bring a lump to my throat. It feels so good. Something of this must show on my face, because...well, Booth hasn't stopped looking at my face since this all started and for the first time in as many minutes, his expression changes, shifts from a focus on himself to a focus on _me_. I swallow hard and compose myself, slipping my feet off of Booth's lap and glancing at Sweets, careful to reveal as little as possible about how I am feeling.

I turn back to Booth and say calmly, as if this isn't a big deal, "Your turn, Booth. Then we'll go get lunch." Booth leans over and unties his shoes, stuffing his socks into them, hiding the special orthotics, hiding his dread. He sits up and shoots an angry glare at Sweets, unable to pretend that he doesn't hate this. He swings his legs up onto my lap and I feel _cherish_ the heavy weight of them on my thighs. Like Booth, I let my hands rest on his calves and smooth them down lightly, but not so lightly as to tickle, to rest on his feet.

Something happens in Booth's body, a shudder, a viseral reaction of some sort and my eyes leap to his and I am afraid that Booth is going to...what? Cry? Pass out? Panicked, I blurt out, "Calcaneus." I squeeze a little to show where I mean. "The heel bone. There are two." Squeeze left, squeeze right. "Talus. Two. Navicular. Two. Medial cuneiform. Two. Intermediate cuneiform. Two. Lateral cuneiform. Two. Cuboid. Two. Metatarsals. Ten. Proximal phalanges. Ten. Intermediate phalanges. Eight. Distal phalanges. Ten." Hoping that I have drawn this out enough, I squeeze one last time and Booth's eyes close in pain. There is no other interpretation for what passes over his face. Panicked, I release his feet quickly and push his legs off me. I grab for the glass of water on the table, knocking it over in my my clumsiness, and before I know it, Booth is at my elbow helping me up. His feet are still bare, but they are supporting his weight, and we are done and I am wet, but Sweets is looking at me, not Booth, and that's all that matters.

I know Sweets must wrap things up with us. I see later on my calendar that our next, final appointment is on Monday _so soon?_ but I only really start recording new input when Booth and I are departing the Hoover, having put our shoes back on, walked down hallways and ridden on elevators. Outside, on the stairs down, I reach out blindly, without looking at him, and take his hand. He slips his fingers in between mine and squeezes. I squeeze back, hard, but he doesn't complain. We are still walking like someone is chasing us, driving forward, long strides, eyes forward. We reach the park. We have only to cross it and we'll be at the diner. Instead he draws me toward a wooded part of the park and when we reach a relatively secluded spot, I turn and throw myself at him. His arms come up around me, fast—one big, warm hand comes to rest on the back of my head and the other pulls me into him at the waist. For my part, I just sink into him, face pressed into his neck, cheek against warm cotton, my arms snaking around his waist. I can't stay silent any longer though.

"Booth, did I hurt you?"

"What? _No._" He has bent his head to press into the join of my neck and is breathing hard. I can feel his lips move when he denies that I hurt him. It feels almost like a kiss and my whole body shudders against him. He makes a sound, again, like hurt, but is not, I suppose, and holds me tighter. We stay like that a long time.

* * *

Our final appointment on Monday is rescheduled to the afternoon since we are busy arresting Kat Curtis in the morning. This case rests heavy on me, with its story of mothers and daughters and fathers. I am not one to draw parallels between myself and others, but...well, this case has been difficult, and I am tired. Booth and I sit on opposite ends of Sweet's couch. He seems as tired and grim as I feel.

Sweets starts. "So, case finished?"

At my affirmative, Sweets says, "Congratulations."

Booth nods. "Yeah."

"You don't seem too happy."

"Well, because sometimes, if you win, you end up with somebody else's pain and screwed-up life. You work for the FBI, you should know that."

"Must be a challenge for you to access those feelings."

Suddenly, I have had enough. "Okay, stop. You don't know Booth. You don't know me, you have a limited view of us based on superficial data you've accumulated on a standardized questionnaire, and a subjective analysis from talking to us that is not at all scientific, so just..._back_ _off_."

Sweets mumbles, "Just trying to help."

"By questioning his humanity?" I am angry, so angry, but Booth's voice is calm, almost good-natured.

"Okay, Bones, now you're going a little bit overboard. He's just a kid. Right? I mean, the worst thing that's probably ever happened to him was he lost at Mortal Kombat."

"Are you normally this protective of him, Dr. Brennan?"

"We are partners. Our lives depend on being protective of each other."

"And you feel the same way, Agent Booth?"

"Sweets, I can only hope that one day you know what a real partnership is."

"You two are very close, that was evident in your superficial, standardized questionnaire and my unscientific observations."

"Yeah?"

"You complement each other."

"No, she never compliments me. Did you compliment me in the questionnaire?"

I clarify. "'Complement,' not 'compliment'. 'Ple'...'ple'. He means that we complete each other, as a team.

"Oh. Yeah, right."

"Now, we've got a lot to work on over the next few months."

I can't believe that I am hearing what I think I am hearing. "Meaning we get to stay together?"

"Yes."

"I'm sensing a 'but'."

"However—"

"It's the same as 'but,'" I say.

"I have observed some underlying issues that need to be addressed."

"Issues?"

"Yes. There's clearly a very deep emotional attachment between you two."

"We're just partners."

"And why do you think I would have thought otherwise?"

" 'Cause you're 12."

Later, on the way out, our next appointment weeks away, I smile up at Booth and say, "You are a very good partner, Booth."

He smiles back, surprised. "Yeah?"

"Yes. _Now_ I complimented you."

He ignores my mini-lecture and puts his hand at my back. I lean back into its warmth, and, when we are several blocks away from the Hoover, I let my arm loop around his waist too, lean into and against him.

A/N (2): A short list about me. (1.) I like long things better than short things. On twitter, I get past the 140 character rule by writing as much as I like in a series of tweets. I like novels, the bigger the better. Here, I am struggling to post one-shots. I already have a follow up to Chapter 2 half-written and I suspect I will be writing a follow up to this chapter as well. (2.) I am all about B&B getting together. If it seems like they might have, they did. :) (3.) My RL is pretty wild right now. I hope my rushed editing suffices, but I'm sure it is not perfect. I'll try to correct things that people point out. Thanks for letting me know what you think.


	4. Chapter 4: Angela Talks Part II

A/N (from when I wrote the first half a few weeks ago and thought I would finish but then didn't): Okay so there is no excuse. I have a lot of great prompts for the next in the series of 60 seconds. And yet the world of the second chapter, The One in Which Angela Talks for 60 Seconds Longer Than She Did in the Original, really stuck with me at a time when a good fantasy world is a necessity. I am having one of my hardest work weeks of my life. So I am indulging myself. In the chapter referenced just now, I suppose a set of circumstances whereby Booth and Brennan are together as a couple—even though very recently—when VNM dies. I guess I just want to live in that world a little bit longer. You don't have to read it. Just in case you want to, here it is. Cause tonight, that's how I roll. 3sq 9/30/13

A/N 2 (from this weekend when I actually was able to finish the second half): Well, I am still here, so that is something. And so are all the people I'm responsible for, so that's even better. I often wonder, now that I write and know how much my stories reflect my inner state of being, what it meant for my favorite authors to have written _that_ book or _that _one. I don't know if this story feels like it was written at two separate times or not, but I feel that this is a quieter story than I often write maybe. I hope doesn't feel anticlimactic somehow. It felt right to me. 3sq 9/19/13

Brief glimpses and tags to the Killer in the Crosshairs, The Blackout in the Blizzard, The Pinocchio in the Planter. I'm not sure if they are obvious or not.

* * *

The One in Which Angela Talks for Sixty Seconds Longer than She Originally Did (Part II)

That night with Brennan, at the movies, felt like a beginning. Actually, really what it felt like was an end. An end to his paralysis, to sitting at home and moping, to avoiding Brennan when really what he wanted was for things to just be _normal_ again, to be able to do things with her, to consider the possibility of more without feeling like he is being observed while he does it. An end to the gloomy spirals of self-doubt that spring from the poisonous and persistent thought that the women he loves don't love him back, or at least not enough to stay with him. Is he so horrible? So that night, when he got back from seeing movies with Bones, eating breakfast _and pie_ in the middle of the night with her, he felt so good, optimistic.

But it wasn't that easy. He still felt low and irritable a lot of the time, still had to work to stay even-tempered at work when he wanted to snap and snarl at people who didn't move fast enough, didn't know what he wanted done. He avoided Sweets who insisted on asking questions about Hannah. For the same reason he avoided Angela. Cam was better, she didn't talk about it, but she was _thinking_ it. Bones, for her part, continued to be patient and even-tempered even in the face of his moodiness. Frankly, it was starting to piss him off and he wasn't even sure why. Finally on the Thursday following the week of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre Day—_he would forever think of it that way now_—his ill-temper spilled over at a crime scene. He only had time to bite out his criticism at Hodgins before Brennan stepped in. The cruel words would have flown from his mouth like bullets. The crime-scene techs, the squints, the local pd, all would have taken the brunt of his simmering rage. As it was, he didn't feel the biting rain, so flush with anger and...yes, hatred, was he. If she had yelled, or tried to push or grab him, he would have fought gladly, escalating in public. That's how much he needed a release.

But she didn't. She stood up to him, face turned up to his, and when he stepped even closer, not caring that he was so close that he was almost spitting her face, she didn't flinch.

"We will talk about this later, Booth. Go take a walk. Go back to the Hoover. Go anywhere but here. You aren't helping." Her eyes were bright and flashing, hot in her pale face. She was cold obviously and used her elbow, not her gloved hands, to brush impatiently at the wet strands of hair that slipped out of her ponytail and now whipped around her face. It was that, her strength in the context of her vulnerability, that stopped him. He couldn't bring himself to say anything but he turned around and drove back to the Hoover to interview several witnesses.

That night and the next day passed, and with them the funk he had found himself in. By the time that Friday afternoon came, by the time he finished working out at the gym—he had spent _a lot_ of time working out since Hannah left—he felt pretty good. And pretty ashamed. He thought about texting her, but felt like she deserved more than that. At a sudden thought, he detoured to a local drug store and then drove to her apartment.

He didn't let himself think that she might really be mad at him, just hoped she was home. He knocked, a little more aggressively than he meant to. He heard her footsteps and then the chain and locks release.

"Hello, Booth." Brennan stood in her doorway, in her work clothes still, looking up at him inquisitively, her face giving nothing away, a sure sign she was hiding something, to his mind.

"Bones." He shifted and brought the brown paper bag out from behind his back to hand to her. "I brought you something."

Her mouth turned up in a pleased smile. She loved presents; he knew that. And Booth wasn't good at apologizing. Maybe this way he wouldn't have to.

"What is it?" She gripped the top of the bag with one hand and supported the bag with the palm of the other, as if it might be fragile.

"Go on. Open it." Her eyes flicked up to his quickly and then back to the bag, smile growing.

"Well...alright." She opened it up and laughed. "Booth!" She turned and walked back into her apartment, leaving the door open behind her in invitation. When she got to the dining room table, she poured out the contents of the bag. Mike and Ikes, Good N' Plenty, nonpareils, Butterfinger Bites, Junior Mints, Milk Duds, and yes, even Raisinettes.

"Is this an invitation? Or apology?" She asked pointedly.

Booth was still reluctant to apologize, why he wasn't quite sure. "Does it matter?"

She didn't argue but he thought he knew the answer. "I suppose not. So, you want to go to the movies? Or stay in and see one."

"Do you have a T.V.?"

"Booth, you know I bought a T.V. It isn't very big but it is sufficient to watch the documentary about the Jersey shore."

"Oh, right. I forgot." He wasn't going _there_ for fear of prompting a performance of her Jersey act. "Do you have any movies?"

"I have _The Mummy_, of course. And _The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance._" Bones looked a little embarrassed. "That is all I have had time to purchase. Do you want to watch one of those?"

"Sure, Bones. That's fine. Whatever you want."

They decided they should have real food first and he ordered take out while she changed into a v-necked shirt and girly sweatpants that went to mid-calf. At these signs of a normal friendship, and honestly, at the smooth, slim ankle and leg showing, Booth felt a weird mixture of nostalgia, misery, and anticipation. Nostalgia for the time when they had dinner together often like this, and misery for the fact that he had lost it for so long, that it was his own damn fault. But anticipation, that was new. He couldn't help but notice the way her shirt molded to her curves. And the fact that it was pretty low cut—he could see the swell of her breasts. His hands twitched and he took a deep breath.

Despite this difficult beginning, they had a good night, watching the John Wayne movie over Thai and movie candy. He thought he might leave while she was in the kitchen or something, calling out a goodbye, but there never seemed a good time. Finally, Booth drained the last of his beer and leaned forward to put the bottle on her coffee table, heaving himself up and snagging his leather jacket from the chair where he had thrown it.

"Well, Bones, I'd better let you get some sleep. See you—" He just stopped himself from turning this last statement into a question, knew he had been about to ask if he would "see her tomorrow". He wondered what it would be like to stay, not leave tonight. As if trying to outrun these dangerous late night thoughts, he walked a little faster to the door and pulled it open so fast it almost bounced against the wall. She was still a few steps behind him to the door and he was already through.

But he couldn't run from her. He slowed his progress down the hall and turned to face her, sketched a little wave, repeated.

"See you later, Bones."

She stood in her doorway, lit boldly from behind and more gently illuminated in the front by the hall lighting. He noted the way her hand rested on the frame lightly, not for support but decidedly, as if standing in the doorway saying goodbye to him was a _thing_, a routine. Her voice came, a little husky from fatigue and wine.

"Yes. Goodbye, Booth. I will see you next week sometime most likely."

"Yeah, sure—" He trailed off.

Maybe ten feet of space between them, but it might as well been ten miles for all he could read her. What happened, what changed? He used to be able to tell what she was thinking. Better than now anyway. Her brows drew in slightly and he felt the urge to run again. She seemed to read him better than he was reading her. That was just wrong. He felt blind and stupid with it.

He turned and left. He walked halfway home, down city streets, long blocks and short. And the dangerous late night thoughts lurked in doorways, in alleys, in the unlit windows next to the bright ones, in the glimpses of empty stairways leading up. Every dark thing caught his eye. Shadowy fire escapes, dim shuttered businesses, discarded tickets and paper underfoot.

Finally tiring, he took a cab the rest of the way home.

* * *

The next day, he woke refreshed. Lighter, free of the dark mood of last night, of the whole damn week. Decided to run, remembered that she often ran in the park on Saturday mornings. He ran fast because he loved running fast not because he thought he might catch up to her. He did catch up to her though and she laughed when joined her, when he tapped her on the arm and beat her to the coffee cart. He joked with her, bought her coffee. _Bones_. Her ponytail, wispy bits sticking sweaty to the sides of her face was not the same as in the lab. His fist clenched at the thought of pushing his fingers through the bunded mass to unbind, to hold the back of her head, to pull her toward him…

And then, murder. And misunderstanding. Broadsky could have killed him, could have killed _her_. He didn't trust himself to go to her then so he just ran. It was raining and he ran until he was shivering, if not from cold, from something he could call cold. Or like he had been freezing, had climbed out of an icy prison and now was warm, hot really, but shivering from the memory of that frosty place.

* * *

The next month or so was better. He felt better. They worked, indulging in petty banter and pushing each other, carefully, but still pushing in that way they had. Suspects and witnesses and squints and coworkers all looked at them with reassuringly familiar expressions of amusement or irritation or wonder. He drove and she asked to drive. They did some paperwork together. He helped her on with her jacket. Life got back to normal. Booth felt normal, at least like he was breaking even, for the first time since Hannah left.

Except for one thing. His ability to read Bones was still fucking broken. He was reduced to reading her actions because he could do that with anyone and because her still, watchful eyes—bright and blue and penetrating as ever—gave nothing away. She made him mac and cheese. She picked fights when he started to descend into the funk again. She met him at the diner. She handed him her coat and let him put it on her. But he didn't know what she was thinking. Was she _pitying_ him? Or was this friendship? Or something else? That night in the car, in the rain, her tears. Did she still feel regret?

They went to the movies. Finally, he insisted on having a turn choosing a seat and made her sit in the back row on principle but then was sorry for it. He hated seeing all the other people in the movie theater, knowing they were there, and wished he were back in the third row with her, pretending they were alone, his body slumped in the seat so that his head could tip back in comfort to see the screen. _Screw principles. _He made them move halfway through _Bringing Up Baby_, Bones whispering triumphantly and laughing as they crouched and scuttled down the aisle into their places.

They settled into their seats and when they were finally comfortable, they turned simultaneously to smile at each other. Booth felt his smile melt away even though Bones, in the dim flickering of the film, held on to the remnants of hers. Their faces were close enough to feel one another's breath.

"Booth?" Brennan whispered.

"Yeah, Bones?"

"I think you owe me breakfast in the morning."

His breath caught. Was she saying…?

"Want to meet at the diner at 9?"

Relief. Disappointment? "Sure. The weather is suppose to be nice, do you want to run first?"

At the sound of mutters behind them and some shushing, Brennan lowered her voice. "Okay, yes." She turned to settle on her back to watch the rest of the movie, posture uncharacteristically sloppy and her hair loose and messy against the seat. He watched her watch the movie, in profile, until she turned back to him.

"What?"

"Nothing." And he turned too.

Sitting, slumped side by side in the dark of the movie theater, he couldn't help but think of all the dates he had taken to the movies, the way that he and the girl would sit, side by side—

Bones straightened at his side.

—legs not touching but somehow aware of one another, ready to bump in a friendly way, but signaling something more than just friendship—

Booth straightened too, pulling his legs up into a normal position, preventing the cramping that surely would have come.

—the girl would rest her arms, slim and smooth compared to any boy's, at her sides, tiny hands resting on her knees—

Bones long, elegant fingers rested lightly on her legs and he glanced down, mesmerized by the comparison of his own knobby, veiny hands, so masculine compared to a woman's, to Brennan's surprisingly delicate ones nearby.

—his hands would start to sweat thinking about taking the girl's hand and he would rub them involuntarily on his jeans—

Booth almost jumped when he felt Bones' cool fingers settle on the back of his hand. His eyes jumped to hers.

"Did you ever hold hands with anyone at the movies, Booth?" Whispering again.

He hadn't moved his hand and hers stayed where it was, resting on top of his. "Sure, Bones. All the time."

"I did too. Once. But the boy's hand was very...moist." Her face, even in the dim light, contorted in distaste. Before he thought about it so long that his hand started sweating like the poor junior bastard's that had the balls to hold young Brennan's hand so long ago, he flipped his over under hers.

"Oh." A small sound of surprise escaped at his sudden move. "Your hand is dry." Her eyes met his and her fingers curved and tightened.

He didn't answer, didn't know how. After a minute, or an hour, he didn't know how long, they both turned back to the movie. But he didn't let go. Neither did she. And, miraculously, their hands stayed dry, but not cool anymore. The heat generated by their hands seemed to pulse and settle in other parts of his body. Booth wanted to shift in his seat but was afraid he'd give away how hard he had gotten just from holding her hand. He wondered what would happen when they stood up to leave.

By the time they stood up, he had thought about little else. But when the lights came on, and they stood, they automatically let go of one another and the moment was past. Booth felt bereft, his hand empty without hers. They put on their jackets, gathered up their bags, their trash. He had the pleasure of putting his hand on her back and having her go first up the aisle. They walked on the almost sticky plush carpet out into the lobby, dumping their trash. They each went into the restroom and came out again. When they exited, though, from the garish fluorescent lights of the movie theater, into the welcoming darkness of the neighborhood streets, things seemed simpler again. It was dark and cool, the streets wet from the rain that had fallen while they were in the theater. As they walked together toward the car, their arms brushed, even their hands once or twice. The third time it happened, he took her hand, careful not to look at her. She wove her fingers through his and told him things about Katherine Hepburn that he barely listened to so loud was the blood pounding in his ears.

He had rehearsed things he could say to her. _He was angry, just angry—not at her—but still just angry and maybe sometime when he wasn't so angry, they could be together._

He had thought about telling her the honest truth, that it meant everything to him that she had stayed with him that night that Hannah had turned him down. That it felt like a lie, a sin of omission, not to have told her that. And that he knew, now, had probably always known, that that dreadful night was about more than just Hannah. It was about her, Bones, too.

He had thought about what it would mean, for he and Bones to be together. He found himself wishing time away. He had guessed dates...next Christmas? Maybe at the beginning of spring—new life and all that? He had even peeked at a couple of Sweet's books on grief and situational depression to see if there was a usual time frame. He thought about writing one of the dates down and burning it like he used to do when he was a kid, sure that now it would have to come true.

But now, the heels of her boots clicking decisively next to him on the wet pavement, the lit windows of late night bars and cafes bright in the darkness, he felt the peace that came with being with her. With Bones. Just that.

"Bones?" He interrupted her comments on Hepburn's later career, pulled her to a halt next to him on the sidewalk. She stopped, looking up at him in the ambient glow of the street lights.

His voice cracked a little as he confessed. "I love you."

She didn't betray surprise or any other emotion but searched his eyes for a long minute while he waited. Her chin came up and her voice was certain and so serious that if he hadn't already seen the joy in her eyes, if he didn't know her, if he had been anyone else, he would have thought she was going to let him down in some way, tell him it was all a mistake but instead for the first time in months he could see into her the way he always had been able to and he knew, even as she said it.

"And I love you, Booth." And that's why so serious, not because she was going to let him down, but because she was afraid of being hurt herself even though he _just_ told her that he loved her. Her eyes are steady on his but vulnerable and questioning and he wanted to laugh. From happiness and because the meaning of her expression was so illogical.

He said, "You know Bones, I still love you now, ten seconds later, even though you love me too."

And she laughed, understanding. "It's just, I don't know, it's just...now?"

"Yeah. Why the hell not? Now." He reached for her other hand, pulled her a little closer. Never one to back down, her chin went up even higher and her bright eyes danced with challenge.

"Will you kiss me now or should I kiss you?" Booth eyes were on her lips and he could barely keep it together long enough to answer her.

"Why don't we meet in the middle?" And then they were kissing as if their lives depended on it, joined by lips and hands only. The feel of her, the smell of her, the _taste_ of her now, after all this time, was incredible. _Oh Bones._

And she must have felt the same because she broke a way with a little moan—_Booth_—and buried her face in his neck. He did everything, everything he always wanted to do in a moment like this. He kissed her head, buried his nose in her hair, pulled her close into him. He loved, reveled, in the feel of her arms banding around his waist, her body swaying and leaning into his. He took her weight easily, gladly, and rubbed her back, pushing and dislodging clothes until his naked hand pressed against her bare skin and she shivered. Her mouth opened on the skin of his neck and her body arched against him and he needed to get them home _now_.

Holding hands again, they ran to the car.


End file.
